One of the Four
by Kerowyn6
Summary: Pushed on by the fact that four tributes will win this Games, John Watson of District Ten is trying to survive. But what with the fact that although four will live, thirty-two will die, and trying to avoid the murderous Career pack, he's not sure he can keep his district partner alive as well. And the Careers this year are deadly. Sherlock is not a villain. Possibly some John/Mary.
1. Chapter 1

**Disclaimer: This stands for the entire fic. I am most certainly not Suzanne Collinns. I am even more certainly not BBC. Stop bugging me.**

**I wanted to do a Sherlock Games fic, and then I realized that in fact, given the chance, Sherlock and Moriarty would probably be allies, friends even- up to a point.**

**Can someone tell me how to get the line thingy that separates sections?**

**Enjoy, and please give feedback!**

It was a sunny day. Generally the people of District Ten were the ones lining up the livestock for slaughter, but that day it was the Peacekeepers who had them penned in. Violet Hunter, the crimson-haired escort from the Capitol, sashayed up to the wooden platform constructed annually for the Reaping. She cleared her throat.

"Now," she started, "As I'm sure some of you have forgotten what happened, I will play the recap of the Quarter Quell drawing. Have fun!"

As she crossed to her chair on the other side of the stage, John Watson rolled his eyes from his place in the sixteen-year-old males section. As though anyone would forget the subject of the fourth Quarter Quell! Violet might have had a thing for replaying old footage, but for most of the citizens of District Ten, any reminder of the Hunger Games was to be avoided.

Violet grinned once at the unwilling audience, then turned to the giant screen and pressed a button on her remote. Instantly pictures flickered to life on the blank surface, and the silent watchers were presented with a view of the young president, Derra Snow. Derra smiled bewitchingly at the camera, then announced in a very self-important voice:

"Today marks the 100th anniversary of the revolt of the District against their benefactor, the Capitol. I have right here the box in which reside several hundred cards containing information for the Quarter Quells." She gestured melodramatically at a simple wooden chest sitting on the table in front of him. "Shall I eliminate the suspense and draw one now? Very well." Winking cheekily, she drew a card identical to every other one in the box. "To ensure the amusement of the citizens of the Capitol, one extra tribute of random gender shall be drawn for each of the Districts." She smiled cheerily. "But wait! It gets better! To show the generosity and forgiveness of the Capitol, four tributes will be able to win these Games." She wiggled her eyebrows, then announced: "Panem out."

John wouldn't have been surprised if some of the Career tributes had been upset about the last part—after all, where was the glory in being one of a group of victors?—but for the inhabitants of the less well-to-do Districts, it was good news. Seven more tributes would die, but three more would live. The chances of living were far greater than before.

"Wasn't that lovely?" squealed Violet, jerking John out of his reverie, "I'd just love to watch it again, but I'm afraid we haven't got time!"

_Thank goodness for that, at least._

"Still, we get to watch the history movie! Oh, what fun!"

Violet Hunter may have actually enjoyed watching historical recreations of bloody massacres, but she was probably the only one in the entire District Ten who enjoyed doing so. Everyone else had seen the video dozens of times and was less than eager to watch it again, and John Watson was no exception. He effectively tuned out the screams of agony and the gun shots and thought instead about the soft bread his mother had bought as a special treat. He'd seen it in the pantry that morning, soft, delicious…

"Oh, that was amazing!" shrieked Violet. With a start John realized that the film was over. Next was the Reaping.

_Just not Dora._

_ Just not Stella._

_ Just not Dora._

_ Just not—oh, goodness gracious, just not me!_

Violet swept toward the large glass bowl containing the name of every single female in District Ten between the ages of twelve and eighteen. Dipping her hand in it and swirling her fingers around, she plucked a slip of paper, unfolded it, read it, and smiled at the audience.

"Carrie Lemming!"

There was a snort of laughter from one of District Ten's two living victors. Violet frowned at him, welcomed the trembling thirteen-year old being pushed onto the stage by Peacekeepers, then turned back to the audience.

"Now for the boys!" she said cheerfully.

This time, there was no swirling, no dramatic unfolding. Violet snatched the first paper that floated into her fingers, cleared her throat, and read:

"John Watson!"

If the shock had had a color, it would have been white. Cold, white shock, like a blanket, muffling everything. Slowly, John stepped out of his pen and headed toward the platform at a pace only marginally faster than that of a snail.

"Oh, come one, dear, don't be shy!" burbled Violet happily.

At the moment, there weren't words to describe what John felt. Shock, yes, but mainly he felt punctuation: !. (Of course, it's reasonable to assume that some of those exclamation points were the residue that followed Violet around wherever she went. She certainly had enough punctuation to spare.) _Shy_ certainly had nothing to do with his sentiments. Still, he managed to accelerate his pace until the hypothetical snails were left in the dust. Climbing the steps up to the platform, he saw Dora break down and start crying on her best friend's shoulder. He saw his father's eyes fill with dread and loss. He watched his sister Harry, drunk as she was, give one heart-wrenching sob, then push her way out of the crowd only to be stopped by Peacekeepers.

He saw it all, but heard nothing. The blanket of shock and the wild exclamations points had blocked all sound. Silently, he took his place next to the shaking Carrie Lemming.

"Oh, this is so exciting!" the words, twittered by an overenthusiastic Violet Hunter, managed to pierce the fog of John's shock. He watched dumbly as she crossed to the last bowl, a huge affair containing the names of every single twelve- to eighteen-year-old in the District, and drew a tiny slip of paper from the very bottom. She unfolded it slowly, then grinned at the audience and announced:

"Molly Hooper!"

Molly. Poor, sweet, Molly. She wasn't exactly John's friend, she was more his friend's friend, but he hung out in the same group as her at school and he knew her to be a very kind person. Her timidity wouldn't stand a chance in the arena. At least, not by herself…

"Thank you, District Ten!" chirped Violet, "And may the odds be ever in your favor!"

00000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000

The next half an hour was a blur for John. He was reasonably popular at school, so around ten of his friends came in, most of them trying valiantly not to cry, but a few sobbing openly. They weren't helpful. He too was crying by the end of his friends' visits and was in horrible shape for the last visitors: his family.

Harry was drunk. Of course she was; she was never sober, and since her younger brother had just been reaped she was in an even sorrier state than normal. Eventually she was removed by the peacekeepers after she broke an ornamental vase sitting on the table.

Dora was weeping hysterically, while Stella was white as a sheet, with no outward signs of what she was thinking other than the small trickle of blood at the corner of her mouth that showed she was biting her lip to stop herself from crying.

But it was John's parents that were the most painful to look at. His father looked as though he'd already lost his son—eyes so full of sadness they looked like twin bottomless pits of sorrow. His mother was clearly trying to keep her son's spirits up, but her false optimism made John feel worse even than Dora's sobbing.

"I might survive," he said finally, when his mother's comments got to be too much "After all, four of us'll live this time."

"Of course, dear," his mother said kindly.

But his father just shook his head sorrowfully.

"There'll be nine Careers this year. Nine. I'm sorry, John. You're as good as dead."

Dora wailed.

As the Peacekeepers pulled his family out the door, Stella darted back and pressed something into his hand.

"Wear this," she whispered.

The last thing he saw of his family as the Peacekeepers slammed the doors shut was his sister's mouthed message: _I love you._

Tears running down his cheeks, he looked down at the thing in his hand. It was Stella's bracelet, a simple woven affair made of hemp.

A heart-shaped pendant swung forlornly from the braid.

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The train was the most beautiful, most graceful method of transportation John had ever seen. It moved smoothly, with nary a bump even as it passed through mountainous District Seven, and it was fast, faster than any horse or cart John had ever been on.

Too bad it was the path leading to the slaughterhouse corral.

"Now, dears," Violet squealed as she strutted down the corridor, "Whatever you do, you must not disturb the driver. Carrie, Molly, you two share this room. John, this is your room right here. Wear anything you want from the wardrobe. All three of you, be in the dining room at seven for dinner. Oh, this is so exciting! See you!" She trotted off, leaving them to their own devices.

Molly looked at Carrie, then at John.

"See you at seven, then, John?" she said finally.

"I guess," he replied.

No one moved.

_Well, this is awkward._

"Umm…" said Carrie.

"Yeah..." said John.

"Okay…" said Molly

Finally, Carrie turned and pushed open the door to her and Molly's room, stepped through it, and pulled Molly in after her, leaving John standing alone in the corridor. He sighed, shaking his head generically at everything that had happened that day.

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"So, everyone!" Violet bubbled after dinner, "We get to watch the other Districts' Reapings! Won't this be fun?"

She led them to a small lounge with a couple of fluffy sofas, a giant armchair, and a huge TV screen. As the tributes made themselves comfortable, she blathered on about how it was all so thrilling and exciting and exhilarating and amusing. John made a mental note to use her as a thesaurusif he needed one. Finally, she glance at her watch, squealed, and twittered:

"It's almost nine! We'd better stop chatting!" She pushed a button on her remote and bright colors filled the room as the TV sprang into life.

It was indeed almost time, for the image was that of District 1. The televised Reapings had started.


	2. Chapter 2

**Oof. It's been a while. I've actually had his chapter about two-thirds done for the last month and a half, I just never got around to finishing it. Hope you like it, and please review!**

**~Kero**

The blue-haired escort for District 1 dipped his hand into the glass ball containing thousands of girls' names, plucked one at random, smiled at the crowd, unfolded the slip and said:

"Irene Adler."

From the moment she stepped out of her pen, John knew Irene to be a born and bred Career. Extraordinary beauty, graceful, efficient movements… all the smaller clues were there, but the biggest one was that she was wearing a self-satisfied smirk as she walked confidently toward the stage, hips swaying.

The indigo man waited for a moment, clearly expecting volunteers, but as John had predicted the Careers remained silent. They had trained their entire lives for the Games, and they certainly didn't want to waste all that training on a Games four people could win. Where was the glory in that? Receiving no offers, the man shrugged, crossed to the boys' ball and grabbed a piece of paper at the top. He unfolded it melodramatically, cleared his throat and read:

"Sylvia Anderson."

He frowned at the piece of paper.

"Sylvia?" he said, "Is that a boy's name?"

"Yes," growled a voice from the fifteen-year-old male section.

"Oh." The man looked nonplussed for a moment, and then said brightly: "Well, then! Come forward, erm, Sylvia!"

"Just call me Anderson," said the voice wearily. Then its owner stepped from his pen and made his way toward the podium.

If he were to place a bet, John would have assumed that Anderson was not a Career. What with his sallow face, sunken eyes, and slightly stringy hair, Sylvia Anderson bore no small resemblance to a walking corpse, and he looked more than a little unhealthy. Then again, why did he show no any fear at being Reaped for the Games?

"All right, then," the escort said uneasily, then turned to the audience. "And last but not least, the tribute of random gender!" He winked. "I won't keep you too long. Here is that lucky person who will get to participate in this extra-special Games!" He dug around for a slip of paper then, apparently having found one he liked the feel of, he pulled his hand back out of the ball.

"Sherlock Holmes!"

Despite the negative adjectives that floated to the top of John's consciousness when he first saw Sherlock Holmes, and there were many—arrogant-, smug-, cold-, and apathetic-looking, among others—he had to admit that Sherlock was handsome. Not just reasonably good-looking, but the sort of troublemaking beauty that caused sponsors to rain down gifts upon. As he swaggered toward the stage John saw Irene give him a cheeky smile.

It was when Sherlock turned around to face the audience, though, that John decided he loathed* him. He looked bored. Positively bored with everything going on. He didn't seem to care that he'd just gotten Reaped for the Hunger Games; he looked like he wanted to get the whole thing over with so he could back to whatever he had been doing before the Reaping. For some reason, that irked John. If you were a Career then you were smug, and if you weren't you were terrified and either looked it or tried to keep up a brave face for the cameras. That was how it went. Being bored was like breaking a time-honored tradition. An insult to both the Capitol and the other tributes.

John decided he would have nothing to do with Sherlock Holmes.

_*I use Terry Pratchett's difference between loathing hatred: as he pointed out in __Carpe Jugulum__, hatred is the opposite of love, but still just as attractive._

The District 2 tributes were not as impressive as those from District 1: a determined but scared teenager called Sally Donovan, a small, terrified boy whose name John promptly forgot, and an older but just as terrified boy called James Moriarty. John decided that none of them was that threatening, except perhaps Sally Donovan. Even if she wasn't a Career, she looked capable.

District 3 produced no one of note (a pudgy, almost petrified boy named Dellen Stamford being the only one over thirteen), and in the last Career District, District 4, no obvious Careers were Reaped. Unlike the other Districts there was a volunteer in 4: a boy John's age called Gregory Lestrade who volunteered for his younger brother.

At this point, having gotten a third of the way through the Reaping, there was a pause while the Head Gamemaker was interviewed, and the tributes' two mentors wandered into the room.

**0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o**

The older one, Leila Hudson, smiled at them, whilst the other one, Damon Crawford, just glared.

"I'm sorry we're late," said Leila, "We watched the first part in Damon's room because he wanted to discuss you and your competition in private, but I convinced him to come out and meet you. I'm Leila Hudson, but you can call me Mrs. Hudson. And you," She pointed at Carrie Lemming, "Are Carrie, am I right? And you're John, and you're Molly?"

The tributes nodded.

"Oh, wonderful! We were talking about the other tributes so far. What do you think of them?"

"I think we should try to make friends with Sally and Greg," Carrie said from her perch on the arm of the couch. John nodded.

"I think you're right, Carrie," said Mrs. Hudson approvingly. "They both look capable, but neither of them look like Careers."

"And what about the ones you want to avoid?" growled Damon.

"The girl from 1?" asked Molly.

"Yes. I think you'd do well to stay clear of her." Damon motioned for the tributes to keep going.

"The… boy from 1 as well?" said John hesitantly.

"Yes, definitely," said Damon. "I get the feeling he could be very dangerous. He's probably a Career, but I'm not sure. If, perchance, he proves to be of a more genteel sort, than you would do good to befriend him. Otherwise, avoid him if you're a wimp, or kill him yourself if you've got guts."

There was a silence. Then Mrs. Hudson frowned at Damon, then turned brightly to the tributes.

"Anyone want some tea?" she said brightly.

There was some mumbling conveying the message that no, they did not want any tea. Mrs. Hudson sighed.

"It's time for the next Reapings!" shrieked Violet. "Oh, I can't wait! Just scoot over, Carrie, there's a sweetheart, let's watch!

**0o0o0o0o0o0o0**

District 5: two girls, one boy, none of whom seemed very capable. They all sniffled. They all sighed.

John sighed. If he were in the Capitol, he would most definitely not place a bet on any of those three. They had about as much chance of winning as a field mouse.

The next district produced no one of note except a friendly-looking blonde girl by the name of Mary Morstan. John watched as she bit her lip and walked stoically up the steps to the platform. No one cheered her. No one cried. There was just the rustling of the wind in the trees and row upon row of blank-gazed, drug-addicted slaves.

It crossed John's mind that perhaps District Ten was not, as he had previously assumed, the worst District to be in.

District 7's tributes were all tall, muscular, and, from the point of view of another tribute, terrifying-looking. But at least there were sobs among the assembled citizens, unlike Districts 1 and 2, who had either really hated their tributes or a thought that they stood no fear of losing. The tribute that stood out the most to him was Anthea Denver, a girl who, he observed, had very large muscles like the others but smiled at her parents, which made John consider her as a possible ally.

There was a girl in District 8 who gave everyone a huge smile, her parents included, but for some reason John couldn't fathom he felt vaguely repulsed by her. Maybe she was faking her emotions—he didn't know, but he did know he didn't want to be anywhere near her. Her name was Kitty Riley.

**0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o**

"They're really not too impressive this year, are they?" sneered Damon Crawford. "We have the two pretty -kids from 1, the corpse-guy with a girl's name, the little wimps from 2 and Miss _I will persevere_, the kindergardeners from 3, Mr. _I love my little brother so much I'll volunteer for him_ from 4 and his two robot friends, three more kindergardeners, the blonde from 6 and her two fellow drugees, macho-men and –woman from 7, and Ms. Cheerful and some more robots from 8. And then there's Hooper and Watson. And _Lemming_." He sniggered.

"Damon!" exclaimed Mrs. Hudson. "Stop it!"

John wasn't sure at which point during her rant he fell asleep, but the next thing he knew was drifting groggily out of the comfortable fog of drowsiness. He opened his eyes in time to see District 12's Reaping—a couple of boys and a girl who looked half-starved—and then it was over. Panem's national anthem played, and the footage of the other districts was shut off.

He looked around. Carrie motionless on the arm of the couch, and Molly was blinking sluggishly.

John turned to Mrs. Hudson, who was talking quietly with Damon Crawford.

"Excuse me, Mrs. Hudson?" he asked. "I think I drifted off. What did I miss?"

She looked at him with an odd sort of smile on her face—affectionate yet melancholy-, and replied:

"Nothing too special. There was a capable girl called Anthea from District 9, but that was about it. We should get you to bed. It's a big day tomorrow!"

He nodded, and busied himself for sleep, trying not to think about what was to come.


End file.
